


World Enough And Time

by Raven (singlecrow)



Category: Thursday Next - Jasper Fforde
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-19
Updated: 2006-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 03:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1629878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlecrow/pseuds/Raven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spaghetti, time-travel, violent dodos, the Very Irreverent Joffy Next and his pissed-off boyfriend. A day in the life of a literary detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	World Enough And Time

**Author's Note:**

> Written for jmtorres.

  
_"It was a bright and clear morning in mid-July two weeks later when I found myself on the corner of Broome Manor Lane in Swindon, on the opposite side of the road to my mother's house, with a toddler in a pushchair, two dodos, the Prince of Denmark, an apprehensive heart and hair cut way too short. The Council of Genres hadn't taken the news of my resignation very well."_   


- _Something Rotten_ , Chapter 2, pg. 21, British edition

"Landen!" I yelled. "Duck!"

He didn't. He looked out at me from over the side of the army jeep, shrapnel exploding into bursts around him, and grinned. "Don't worry."

"They're shooting at us!" I grabbed at him, pulling at his hands. "They're, they're shooting - duck!"

"No, they're not." He grinned. "That's not gunfire. That doesn't sound like gunfire. That sounds like someone knocking at the door. Thud. Listen, Thursday! Something important is going to happen today!"

"Landen," I tried again, but he held up one hand, a five-fingered silhouette against a war-torn sky.

"Listen. _Thud_."

I woke up in darkness. _Thud_. The sound, rhythmic and unpleasant, was coming from downstairs, and I sat up in a hurry only to dislodge something warm and heavy. It whimpered. I flicked on the bedside light to meet Friday's frightened and accusing eyes.

I grabbed at him just before he rolled off the bed - "Sorry!" - and drew him under the covers.

He stared at me a minute longer, as if to say _you'd better be sorry_ , and then held out his arms. Staggering out of bed, I picked him up, balanced him on my left hip and made for the door. "Poor baby, did the noise wake you up?"

He nodded, resting his head on my shoulder. "Okay," I said after he'd settled. "Let's find out who it is."

The house was entirely dark as I tried to navigate my way downstairs. The next thud startled me and I nearly stumbled, clutching at the banister just in time. "This had better be good," I warned Friday, staring out at the shadow behind the glass panel in the door. There was something familiar about the shape of the silhouette. "In fact, I think" - and opening the door, I was perfectly right - "it's your idiot Uncle Joffy."

The moment the door was open, Joffy had squeezed his way inside and shut it behind him. He was out of breath and dripping wet. "Let me in, Thursday! It's bloody awful out here!"

I tried to look as threatening as possible with a baby on my hip. "Joffy, it's five o'clock in the sodding morning. What the hell's going on?"

"It's Miles."

"Miles? What happened? Is he all right?"

"He's all right, he's fine." Joffy heaved a sigh. "Look, Thursday, can I have a cup of tea or something? I got drenched, I'm freezing."

Looking at him, I suddenly realised it wasn't rainwater dripping into his eyes. Wondering what could possibly have happened to make Joffy cry - the last time I'd seen him cry had been at my wedding, and the time before that at Anton's funeral - I led the way into the kitchen and waited for him to follow. He sat down at the table while I put the kettle on. Friday perked up for a moment when it was whistling, batting tiny hands at the steam, but soon went back to sleep on my shoulder. I gave him a kiss, poured the tea with my free hand and clanged a mug down in front of Joffy.

"Here you go. Now talk. What's happened to Miles? And why does it involve you tramping all the way over here in the rain in the middle of the night?"

"The thing is," he said, staring into his mug. "Well. The thing is. Um. We've sort of had a bit of a tiff. I thought I'd best not be in the same room as him for a while."

He looked utterly miserable. Careful not to wake the baby, I reached out and placed one hand on his. "What happened?"

"It's not important." He was still looking down into his tea. "I got home late, GSD thing kept me out, he was, I don't know. Different. Strange. Said maybe I was too worried about toast and thirteenth-century saints. Said maybe I had different priorities. I don't know, Thursday! We fought! About something! And I stormed out! And now I'm here!"

I took a deep breath. "Joffy."

He didn't look up. "Yeah, Thurs."

"How long have you and Miles been together?"

He did look up, this time. "Since before you went away," he said slowly. "Two years, nearly three. "

"Right. Joffy, please don't take this the wrong way - but is it possible you might have started to take him for granted?"

"What?" Joffy stared at me. "I don't take him for granted!"

"I'm not saying you're doing it on purpose - ouch!" I had been trying to stare resolutely back, but something yanked at my head. "Friday, sweetheart. Don't pull Mum's hair." I dislodged his hand and looked back up at my brother. "Joffy, I don't mean to hurt you. I just think. Well. You know."

Joffy nodded. "Look, maybe, but it was him being irrational. I swear it was. He was the one who got all self-righteous and priorities-rearranging about it. It just got really stupid."

"I could be wrong," I said quickly. "Maybe that's not it."

"Yeah, maybe. Thanks, Thursday."

I wasn't sure what for. "You're welcome."

"Yeah," he said thoughtfully, "thanks for being such a bratty little sister."

He was almost smiling. I squeezed his hand. "Drink your tea."

We sat there in silence, broken only by the occasional catch in Friday's breathing, watching the sky lighten behind the rain. At seven, Mum appeared in her dressing-gown, registered Joffy's presence without surprise and said, "My, you two are up early. Are you staying for breakfast, Joffy dear? Boiled eggs or toast?"

"Yes, Mum. Eggs, please."

"The Toast Marketing Board would throw fits," I observed as I stood up. Friday was awake again, making small excited noises that probably indicated a similar desire for breakfast.

"Probably," he said gloomily. "But apparently today is my day for pissing people off."

"There'll be no bad language at this table, Joffy Next!"

"Sorry, Mum."

After some rummaging, I found a jar of strained raspberries in the fridge. "Joffy, you can stay here as long as you want," I said, ladling it out, "but only if you think it's a good idea."

"Which means that you don't," he said shrewdly. "Look, Thursday, I'll sort this out. I will. I just want some time to myself."

"Fair enough," I said, and was distracted by Friday fixing me with an intense stare.

"Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet," he said firmly, "consectetur adipisicing elit!"

"What does that mean?" asked my mother with interest.

"It means `give me my strained raspberries and boiled egg, Mum.' Here you go, sweetheart." I spooned some into his mouth; predictably, it went everywhere, and in the time it had taken me to get most of the stuff off, the kitchen had filled up with more people demanding breakfast. Mum soon busied herself putting on a few rounds of toast, and I sat Friday down in his high chair and took a peek out the window at the sun getting higher in the sky. "That reminds me - Mum, can you look after Friday for a couple of hours this morning? If you can't, I'll ask Melanie Bradshaw, but I thought I'd ask you first."

"Of course I'll look after him," she said indignantly. "I'd much rather he was with his own grandmother than that... than that... person."

" _Mum_. Don't be prejudiced. Melanie adores Friday."

"Why, yes, of course," she said, flustered, "I'm sure she does, it's just." She stopped. "I caught him peeling a banana with his feet the other day!"

"You can't be sure he picked that up off Melanie," I argued.

"Thursday," said Lady Emma Hamilton, "the woman is a gorilla."

"Well, yes..." I began, but was broken off by the sound of breaking crockery. On the other side of the table, a plate had been knocked to the floor and Joffy was looking horrified.

"I only asked, did he want egg or toast with his tea!" he said, aghast. "And then his eyes rolled and he looked like he was having sort of fit!"

"First rule of this house, Joffy," I said sternly, picking up a spoon, "don't ask Hamlet to make a decision!"

Hamlet was clutching at the edge of the table, white-faced. "For one is of the greater sustenance," he murmured, "boil'd into primrose hue, but what of the other? Its blessing, its right divine...

"You're having wholewheat toast with butter and jam!" I snapped, and hit his head with the spoon. It seemed to do the trick, so I stuffed the toast into his mouth to stop him talking and turned to glare at Joffy. "I am going to pretend," I said slowly, "that you did not tell Hamlet about the bloody Toast Marketing Board, and I am going upstairs to get dressed maintaining this pretence. Okay?"

"Okay." Joffy was suitably contrite, for once. For a wicked minute I wished Miles would hold him to ransom all the time. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too," Hamlet put in. "I don't know what came over me. Mrs. Next, I do apologise. You shall have the finest dinner service of Elsinore to replace what is broken."

"Oh, that won't be necessary," said my mother vaguely. "But you can do the washing up if you like."

I stamped upstairs and into the bathroom and brushed my teeth in a rage. By the time I came to spit out the foam, I'd seen the funny side. I got dressed as quickly as possible, ran a brush through my martyr-short hair and went back to the kitchen in a better mood. I found Joffy playing the aeroplane game with Friday, who turned to me and said solemnly, "Quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris."

"I hope that means, `You look lovely, Mum.'"

Joffy yawned. "More like `why does my mum look like Joan of Arc?'"

"Very funny. Feel like babysitting?"

"Sorry. Got a GSD parish meeting this morning. I'm off out."

"Enjoy that. And, er, Joffy, remember what..."

"I'll remember what you said!" He stood up. "Later, Doofus."

"Shut up!" But he was gone, and I glared at his retreating back. Picking Friday up, I wiped his mouth and carried him into the living room, where Mum was dusting the ornaments and sniping at Lady Hamilton. "Be good for Grandma, Friday. Mum, look after my baby. Don't leave him in the supermarket."

Lady Emma sniffed and Mum waved a duster at me. "See you later."

*

"So," Hamlet asked as we walked down the garden path, "what are we supposed to be doing today?"

I thought about it. "We need to petition the bank manager about my overdraft again. I need to drop in on SpecOps. And Mum's doing the food shopping with Friday, so we don't need to do that."

"Is that an Outland custom, leaving one's offspring amongst vegetables?" Hamlet asked with interest. He was losing his Danish accent, I noted.

"Not really," I told him, opening the car door for him, "but you know Mum."

He nodded. "I believe I do. Will you drop me off at my conflict-resolution classes?"

"Sure."

Driving down the to the end of the road, I had to subdue the Speedster and come to a first-gear crawl. There were protesters waving placards and milling off the kerbs; I honked, and they moved back, but only a few steps. Swearing, I honked again and managed to inch forwards.

"We Support Yorrick Kaine," Hamlet read off a placard he was twisting round to see. "Down With Denmark. Danes Aren't Great. I'm feeling unloved."

"I don't understand it, myself," I remarked, finally getting somewhat free of the crush, "why Kaine has this bizarre vendetta against the Danish people."

"Perhaps he saw Lawrence Olivier being me," said Hamlet morosely. So far, his favourite rendering of his play had been the one with Lola Vavoom as Ophelia. I shuddered at the thought.

"Perhaps."

"You know, I think there might be another demonstration going on at the same time," Hamlet said suddenly. "Toast Is Marvellous? Eat Lots of Toast?"

I liked these demonstrators better, I decided. They all looked bright and cheerful and were wearing sunshine-yellow macs. "The Marketing Board again, no doubt," I said.

"As your brother was telling me. Are they a Goliath subsidiary?" Hamlet asked, accepting a free sample of buttered toast through the car window.

"No," I said, pretty sure Joffy wouldn't be involved with them if they were. "No, I never really thought about it, but they're nothing to do with Goliath."

"Something to do with Yorrick Kaine? A stealth pressure group?"

I shook my head.

"So," Hamlet said, as we made it away from the residential streets and onto the bypass into town, "they're just a lot of people who really, really like toast?"

"Er," I said. "Yes."

This thought was enough for us both to maintain our silence for all the twenty minutes it took me to drive into Swindon. I left Hamlet to resolve his conflicts with a brief qualm about whether the world really needed him to resolve his inner turmoil, but then reasoned that as matters stood, a well-adjusted Prince of Denmark was no problem as long as the only play he had to go back to was The Merry Wives of Elsinore.

The next item on the to-do list was to visit my bank manager and plead on behalf of my overdraft, but I realised I'd forgotten the vital part of my arsenal - Friday. Dressed in his oldest clothes, hair tousled and eyes red from a good scream, he had the power to melt the hardest heart. Or at least get me the first thousand interest-free.

Dejectedly, I drove over to the SpecOps headquarters and wandered up to my office. Bowden looked up with interest. "Thursday? Are you gracing us with your presence today?"

I shook my head. "Not really. Just thought I'd pick some reports on the Danish book-burnings."

"Here," he said, "and here, and here, and this one's very thorough, and oh, you could do with that, that's got the bit about the Australian Book Depository..." He stopped and glared at me.

I held up my hands. "How was I supposed to know they really were using the Australian Book Depository to hide in?"

He didn't stop glaring. "By the way, someone from SO-14 was looking for you."

I nodded, not entirely sure I wanted to know what Tactical Support wanted with me, and turned to go. Arms full of my latest metric tonne of reports, I went downstairs to the canteen for a late breakfast; Joffy and Friday between them had ensured I hadn't had time for it. Sitting down to my scrambled egg on toast - having seen what Friday could do with it given enough time and determination, I didn't find it particularly appetising - I gave it a listless poke, let the fork drop and sat back in my chair. Looking out across the room, I noticed a man with shaggy dark hair and a familiar Swindon Mallets T-shirt. I tried to duck in time but it was too late, he'd spotted me. "Thursday?"

"Hi," I said lamely, trying very hard not to look as if I'd been making a dive under the table. "Er... how are you?"

He didn't answer. He grabbed a chair, sat on it the wrong way and rested his head on the table. "Not too bad. How are you? Hey" - he livened up for a minute - "what did you do with your hair?"

"I had to stand in for Joan of Arc," I explained, and he smiled slightly.

"Sure you did. Listen, Thursday, um, I don't know if you, um, but..."

I gave up. "Joffy arrived on my doorstep at five o'clock this morning, soaking wet, and proceeded to make a total arse out of himself."

"Oh, well, so long as he's not acting _out of character_..." Miles laughed. "But he's okay, right?"

"He's okay. How are you?"

"You already asked me that." Miles was still smiling. "Look, as long as he's okay, I'm fine. I just want him to stop making a prat out of himself. I realise it's hard. Tell him to come home when he does."

"Yeah, I will." I smiled back. "You know, Miles, you're probably much better than Joffy deserves."

"Oh, I don't know, I rather like him." He got up and turned his chair the other way around. "Anyway, enough about me. What've you been up to? How's the little one?"

"Driving his mum mad, mostly. Listen, Miles, you could come for dinner tonight. I mean, if you wanted. Joffy will be - well. You know."

"I'd like that," he said seriously, nodding. I held his gaze for a moment, and smiled inwardly as the tension drained a bit. I settled back in my chair and looked down at my scrambled egg. It had congealed, and seemed to be developing an elastic consistency. I tried it with a fork and was impressed with the rebound.

"Thursday!" squealed an incredibly shrill voice, and startled, I accidentally speared the egg. It flew off my fork and was neatly snatched out of the air by Miles, who ate it with all appearance of pleasure.

"Trained reflexes," he said, grinning. "And who is this stately galleon?"

"Miles," I said, straight-faced, "I believe you know Cordelia?"

"SpecOps public relations?" he asked, and she nodded enthusiastically. "I don't envy you your job. Excuse me, I must be going. I'll be there tonight, Thursday."

"See you later," I said, watching him take my plate and wander off whilst trying to ignore Cordelia. This proved as difficult as ever.

"Darling Thursday," she gushed, "tell me that wasn't what I thought it was."

"It wasn't what you thought it was, Cordelia." I sighed. "What did you think it was?"

"Well, from where _I_ was standing - sitting, rather," and she giggled girlishly, "it was you, Thursday Next, SpecOps-27 and _quite_ the lapsed heroine, do you know what I mean? The _firm favourite_ of the media, adored by literary fans the world over, who then mysteriously _disappears_ for two years before making a dramatic reappearance in _Swindon_?"

"I do live here," I said mildly.

"Anyway, you, and the trigger-happy but oh-so-adorable Miles Hawke? Is there an office romance going on, Thursday?"

"Definitely not," I said firmly. "I've told you before, Cordelia. There is absolutely nothing going on between Miles and me."

"Now, Thursday, don't be coy."

"I'm not being coy!" I said, irritated. "There's nothing going on!"

"But the baby!" She clapped a hand to her mouth. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I know you want it kept as discreet as possible...."

Most of the canteen were listening by this point, I was sure. "Miles is not the father of my baby, Cordelia!"

She looked amazed. "He's not?"

"No!" I exclaimed. "He's sleeping with my brother!"

There was silence for several seconds.

"Thursday," came a voice from the door, "I found your message from Tactical Support."

"Go on, Bowden," I said through gritted teeth.

"Er," he said, peering at the bit of paper, "it's marked here as a very personal matter. Would you rather I told you out here?"

I got up, muttered, "Excuse me, Cordelia," and tramped outside the canteen door.

"Er," Bowden said. "To Thursday Next, from SpecOps-14, Tactical Support. Miles Hawke wants to see you."

*

"But who is?"

"What do you mean, who is?" I asked grumpily. I had picked up a refreshed and emotionally stable Hamlet from his conflict-resolution classes, and in the absence of anyone non-fictional to vent my rage on, regaled him with the events of the morning.

"Well," said Hamlet thoughtfully, "Miles isn't Friday's father, because he's... what is the Outland word?"

"Gay," I said, peering at my wing-mirrors.

"Yes, that."

"And apart from that," I went on, turning into Mum's driveway, "since when would I sleep with my brother's boyfriend and this is all a big misunderstanding."

"Right," he said, as I slowed the car to a halt and got out. "But if Miles isn't the father - who is?"

I waited for him to join me before replying. "It's a long story. Full of scandal and cheese-smuggling. Hello, anyone home?"

"Hello, dear," said my mother cheerfully, appearing at the front door. "Friday's in the kitchen drawing a picture of a hat. Hamlet, how was your conflict-resolution class? Do you think they would be any good for Alan?"

"No, Mrs. Next," said Hamlet politely. "I think being human is a prerequisite."

I followed Mum into the kitchen and scooped up Friday, who squeaked happily and buried his head in my neck. "Neque porro quisquam est," he whispered.

"Love you too," I said. "Mum, is there enough food to go round? I invited someone for dinner tonight."

"Probably," she said. "I went to the supermarket and got stocked up. No bananas, though," she added, with a stern glance at Friday. "Who have you invited? Someone I know?"

"Miles."

"Do you think that's a good idea?" she asked with the gentle implication that she didn't. "By the way, your dad's here."

"Hello, sweetpea," said my father, coming in through the kitchen door. "Good to see you."

I turned around in surprise. He looked a little older than when I'd seen him last, but without the centuries of travel hanging over him. "Dad, what are you doing here?"

"Picking up a packed lunch," he said, waving a tiffin box at me. "Corned beef and cheese. I've got to go back to the sixteenth century as soon as possible - this is just a flying visit, so to speak. How is everyone?"

"Hamlet's taken up conflict-resolution classes," I said. "Mum's changing the curtains in the living-room and SO-27 are making me smuggle Danish books out of the country. Friday's learned to peel bananas with his feet. Alan nearly ate next-door's cat. Oh, and Miles and Joffy are coming to dinner tonight."

"Right," he said, nodding. "And, er, Lady Hamilton?" Off Mum's look, he changed his mind. "Forget I asked. Yes. Oh, one more thing before I go - buy club soda."

"What for?" I asked suspiciously.

"No reason, no reason," he said, airily. "It's quite good for getting orange stains out of the carpet. And by the way, this isn't a hat." He picked Friday's drawing off the table. "It's an elephant being eaten by a boa constrictor. I'll see you all again before the decade is out!"

He vanished. "Such melodrama," said my mother, sniffing. "Now, what was that about an extra person for dinner?"

"Mum," I said, "what were you planning to serve for dinner?"

"Spaghetti bolognese. Why, does Miles not like it? I could do a veggie version."

"No, I'm sure he will. In tomato sauce?"

"Is that a problem?"

"No," I decided, "probably not. Do you mind if I invite Melanie to dinner as well?"

"Oh, no," Mum said, "the more the merrier."

And so, indeed, it turned out.

*

"Lorem ipsum!" Friday yelled. "Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet!"

"Hush, baby," I whispered, rocking him. "It's okay, sweetie. It's just your uncles having a row. Nothing to be frightened of."

"I could take him if you wanted?" asked a growling sort of voice. "Your arms must be dropping off by now."

I looked up at Melanie, who was sitting against the wall, looking out over Mum's garden. "Thanks, but it's okay, he'll be asleep in a bit."

"So this is the Outland," Melanie said after a minute. "Your mother's garden is very, er, hardy."

I tried to pick a leaf off a nearby tree and had my thumb spiked by genetically engineered cactus needles. It was a hardy garden; following the recent mammoth migrations, Mum had taken very seriously the SpecOps pamphlet on How To Make Your Garden Unpalatable To Proboscidea.

"Yes, it is," I said politely.

There was an awkward pause, as we both listened to the sound of plates smashing, and then muffled shouting. "Thank you for looking after Friday," I said. "I do appreciate it."

"Oh, it's no problem, Thursday dear," said Melanie, stretching. "You are still Bellman, you know. It's my pleasure to help you out."

More breaking crockery. This time I heard Joffy shout, very clearly, "I never said that! Thursday said that!"

"I'm sure I didn't," I muttered. "Melanie, I'm so sorry about all this. They've never had a domestic so far as I can remember."

"Perhaps they're having all of them at once," Melanie suggested. "That's always the way with me and my dear Trafford. Sometimes he does get on my nerves, poor man, but we always make it up in the end."

"How is Commander Bradshaw?" I asked, partly because I wanted to know, and partly to mask the distant sound of a hand hitting a table.

"He's well," she said cheerfully. "Off on assignment for Jurisfiction in _The Lost World_. Doing a new map as we speak!"

"I can speed up the paperwork on that, when it's done," I offered. "Have a word with the Acting Bellman-elect, whoever that is."

"I'm sure he'd appreciate that."

I nodded, and we lapsed into silence again. Friday sucked his thumb. From inside, a door slammed and after a second Miles came striding out. "That man," he said breathlessly, "is impossible. Tell me, how on earth does he solve religious conflict for a living?"

"Mostly by shouting people into submission," I admitted. Melanie, I noticed, was looking on with interest at the peculiar Outland courting ritual. "Listen, can't you make Joffy shut up and go home with you?"

"That's the plan," he said grimly. "I'm not angry with him! Well, yes, I am, but not like he's making out! The world isn't ending!"

"What's the fight about?" I wanted to know.

"He spends too much time sorting out GSD schisms, I spend too much time with SpecOps, we never see each other, everything gets crazy." He sighed and pushed his hand through his hair in a way that would no doubt have Cordelia swooning. "So we're having a fight about it. Really, I'm sure we'll be finished in a minute."

"Good. You're probably not doing Mum's mental health any favours."

"I'm sending her flowers in the morning, believe me."

He tramped back inside, and even when the door had closed behind him, I could hear the volume dropping. After another minute, I shifted Friday so he wasn't grabbing on my hair and ventured inside the house. Melanie followed, doing her very best not to walk into furniture.

The first person I met was my mother, who was staring at the hall carpet in some distress. "Tomato bolognese sauce," she said gloomily. "Dear me, I did think I raised my children better than to throw their food. Where did I go wrong, I wonder?"

Suddenly realising that the two most patient people I knew were Miles and Landen, I said, "I don't know, Mum," and went to the kitchen door. Joffy was sitting with his back to me, talking quietly to Miles, who looked up and gave me a brief smile before rising to shut the door.

Stepping away, I stared down at my curly-headed boy. "I think," I said to Melanie, "that it's somebody's bedtime."

She held out her arms. "Let me take him up to bed for you."

Understanding the meaning of the gesture, I managed to hand over Friday without waking him. Making small gorilla sounds of affection, she carried him up the stairs with me following. Once I'd settled him into the cot, the house was settling into peace and quiet around us. I thanked Melanie again for all her help, and she gave me her usual grin. "No worries. Can I borrow your travelbook? It's time I went home, too."

"You're welcome to stay, you know," I said.

She shook her head. "Wouldn't want Trafford to worry, and besides, I don't think you'll have bananas for breakfast."

"Only on toast." I retrieved my travelbook it for her, and listened to her read, in a rich low voice, the opening paragraphs of _Bradshaw Defies The Kaiser._  
Before the end of the second page, she was gone.

*

I woke up in dim light, curled up with Landen on the backseat of the old army Jeep. The sky was orange at the fringes, with livid bruises of far-off shelling, but black at its zenith and sprinkled with stars. "Landen? I had such a weird dream."

"Shhh," he said. "Don't worry about it."

"I dreamt that Miles and Joffy had a fight over corned beef sandwiches, and that Bowden had my baby. Is that right?"

"Probably not," he said softly. "Don't think about it."

"No, maybe it was Hamlet and the spaghetti. It was something about spaghetti, anyway. Landen? Are you listening?"

He nodded. "This is the Crimea," he said quietly. "This is the night you and I went out on the minefield. Miles and Joffy won't meet for years, Anton is still alive, Friday hasn't been born."

"This is the dream?"

"Something like that." He laughed. "Nothing is ever what it seems."

"Now you sound like my father." I poked him. "That's not playing fair."

He poked back. "Who said anything about being fair? Now it's time to wake up."

"I don't _want_ to wake up."

"Too late" - and he was right. The quiet, night sounds of the assembled regiments faded into nothing, became the steady ticking of the clock in my old bedroom. The posters I'd liked when I was nineteen stared down in the dark, but the house was quiet. I got out of bed and peered into the cot, but Friday was sound asleep.

Wondering what had awoken me, I moved quietly towards the window and pulled back the curtains. In the dull yellow of the streetlights, I saw two figures making their way down the garden path, stumbling and leaning on each other. Miles's head was thrown back, and his eyes stood out, cat-like, in the dimness. As I watched, his arm slipped round Joffy and the two of them disappeared into the dark.

"Well," I said quietly, "there's _one_ happy ending, at least."

Something creaked. At the edge of my perception, there were very quiet footsteps. Hands on the windowsill, I didn't move. "Friday?"

The voice that answered was soft, male and adult. "Yes."

As I turned around, he raised his right hand and clicked once. At once, the clock stopped ticking and the air turned cold; I couldn't think of a way to describe it that wasn't overblown and flowery, but it reminded me of my father, the silence and the eddies of eternity slipping through the window cracks into the room.

In the dark, I could barely see anything of him, the hall light spilling through the door and illuminating only his bare feet. He was wearing an old leather jacket, which seemed like something Joffy had worn as a teenager, and his hair touched his shoulders, and he had Landen's eyes. He looked about twenty-five. "Hello, there," he said. "Don't get too close."

I couldn't think of anything to say, so I said, "It skips a generation, doesn't it?"

"What does?" He looked at his own outstretched hand as though he'd only just noticed it. "Oh, yes. Youngest head of the Chronoguard in, oh, centuries. And they should know."

I grinned. I couldn't help it. "Why are you here?"

"I shouldn't be, really." He smiled. "You know, the world nearly ended today."

"What? Nothing important happened today!" I said. "Hamlet had conflict-resolution classes, Melanie came in from British East Africa, people ate a lot of toast. Mum got sniffy about Lady Hamilton, Alan was violent, Miles and Joffy had a fight and threw spaghetti at each other. Which Dad already knew about... hang on, why was he downstream? What nearly happened today?"

He smiled wryly. "Can't tell you that. Let's leave it at this: sometimes little things matter."

Without waiting for my answer, he walked silently across the room and peered into the cot. I moved to stand beside him. With no surprise, I realised that within a frozen time bubble spanning the world and its containing universe, my baby was still contentedly sucking his thumb.

Standing beside me, I felt him sigh. "I really have to go. This is a breach of regulations."

"Don't worry, sweetheart," I said, "those run in the family."

He laughed, sounding like Landen, whirled around and disappeared.

All at once, the light in the room lost the translucency, shifting through the spectrum onwards the lightbulb-yellow of hearth and home. I reached in and picked him up, his sleepy moans of surprise subsiding into silence as he went back to sleep on my shoulder.

Like a train accelerating through the night, the world came back up to speed. The second-to-last thing I heard was Miles and Joffy, laughing on their way home, and the last thing was Friday's breathing, slowing and slowing into the rhythm of time.

In the morning I got up and Alan had eaten Mum's begonias, but the real world never does tie off neatly.

 

 

 


End file.
